


Eighteen in Wartime

by Hijja



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 22:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hijja/pseuds/Hijja
Summary: There was something about turning eighteen in wartime...





	Eighteen in Wartime

**Author's Note:**

> Written in March 2007 for the daily_deviant "knives" kink/prompt, with grateful hugs to Ella Bane for the spot-on beta.
> 
>  **Warning(s):** A bit of knife- and bloodplay

There was something about turning eighteen in wartime, Ron Weasley mused as he stumbled into the small chamber at the top floor of Grimmauld Place he shared with no one at all. The larger room he'd lived in with Harry the previous year had been occupied by a gaggle of boys just out of Hogwarts, all eager to fight with the Boy Who Lived and his Order of the Phoenix. The Creeepy brothers, in particular, seemed to cling to Harry like limpets.

Turning the house into over-crowded headquarters had wrestled control over Grimmauld Place from the older generation of the Order. Most of the old crowd had their own homes, and even Mum found it hard to extend her iron reign from the Burrow over a bunch of young witches and wizards who mostly did not know her and were Muggle-born to boot.

Opportunity and omnipresent danger bred good parties, though. If Mum had known what an abysmally bad chaperone Remus Lupin would turn out to be, she'd never have gone along with Dad's suggestion that they leave the young people to their own fun after Ron's birthday dinner. But Remus neither tried to hide that he was getting off with Tonks, nor did he react to Seamus's drinking games in the back parlour, or to Terry Boot snogging Padma and Susan in the pantry.

Ron licked his bottom lip and tasted his last butterbeer which had been rounded off with several shots of firewhiskey and two cups of a punch that had been the uncontested highlight of Gryffindor potions-brewing. He wasn't drunk, Ron insisted to his washstand mirror, which hummed sceptically in response. Just pleasantly fuzzy.

They'd played a vicious, alcohol-soaked game of truth or dare earlier, and Ron flushed hotly at the memory of Zach 'the Bastard' Smith's final challenge. Ron had known things would get ugly the moment those malicious blue eyes ended up on him. Smith had dared him to kiss 'any male in the room' and Smith knew how just one more punishment shot of firewhiskey would collapse Ron in a delirious heap on the rug! The all-out evil shite had picked Ron only because Ron was girlfriend-less for the night and he didn't have the guts to mess with Harry - not while Harry had his arms around Ginny, the queen of Bat Boogey Hexes.

Poor Harry had gone all wide-eyed, not daring to meet Ron's eye, while Seamus waggled his eyebrows at Ron with a leer. But honestly, there was only one thing to do to escape utter mortification - and a thing that had the actual benefit of revenging himself on the bastard in the process.

So, he'd seized Smith by the collar of his robe - delighting in the Hufflepuff's recoil when he thought Ron would punch him - then latched onto his mouth with feral determination and snogged him breathless. It was all firewhiskey courage, of course, and Smith tasted of butterbeer and punch, his mouth soft with shock under Ron's.

When he dropped Smith back into his armchair where he bounced speechless, the ringing catcalls pronounced Ron the winner in that little game. Still, he should not - drunk or not - get this hard snogging another bloke. Least of all over such a right bastard.

He hadn't protested later when he saw Ginny and Harry sneak up the back staircase towards Ginny's room. Harry hadn't caught him watching, face buried against Ginny's throat, but his sister had; she gave him a plaintive death glare that had Ron dissolving into giggles. And why shouldn't the two make out? If Hermione had been able to stay for the party instead of researching Horcruxes undercover at the Araminta Black Foundation, Ron would have been trying to persuade her to bed as well. At least the Creeveys hadn't tried to tag along.

Ron scratched his bollocks behind an erection which hadn't gone away yet. He considered a post-party wank, but knew he was likely to collapse as soon as he put his head on the pillow. Tiredness tugged at his brain, but his stomach flopped in a way that warned him he'd get sick if he lay down immediately.

Moreover - Ron glared at the life-sized portrait on the wall over his bed - he'd not yet found the courage to toss off under the sardonic smirk of young Sirius Black. Perhaps Remus had asked him to play host to this particular painting when he and Tonks moved into Sirius's boyhood room because they, too, found shagging uncomfortable under those mocking eyes.

Glaring at the precocious Black face at the wall - whose eyes were fixed suggestively on his lower middle - Ron turned his back and made a tipsy beeline to his dresser table, where he'd stacked his presents. A good haul, he thought lovingly. A spare wand complete with ankle sheath from Harry, so expensive that Ron had gone cold for a moment and would have protested if the gift wouldn't come so very handy in the war. Ash and unicorn hair, an unusual combination that lay strangely well in his hand. He wondered where Harry had got it, with Ollivander vanished.

A set of hex-repelling robes from his parents, a bag bulging with Darkpowder grenades from Ginny and the twins, and - unexpected in its un-bookishness - a beautiful wizarding shaving kit from Hermione. Mum had looked a bit miffed, as if it should have been a gift from family rather than from a girlfriend. Which was ridiculous after Dad had taken him aside to teach him shaving charms when he'd turned fifteen. The kit was beautiful: mother of pearl in the shape of a shell, the outer case held all implements - a smaller box with instant lather pellets, a shaving brush so soft it felt like snuggling a kitten, and a wickedly sharp shaving knife with an Anticut Charm and smooth mother-of-pearl handle.

Ron ran the blade over his throat with childish excitement, entranced by a sharpness that wouldn't cut his flesh. Almost regretfully, he repositioned the contents into their shell casing. He'd try them out in the morning.

He struggled out of his robe and shoes, falling onto the bed at last in underpants and sweaty undershirt before deciding, after encountering painted Sirius's raised eyebrow, to take up the battle with his pyjamas. And a battle it was, nearly causing him to fall over twice before the pyjama pants finally covered his arse in a way that wasn't too uncomfortable. Foregoing the top, he flopped back onto the pillow and felt the twin waves of sleep and alcohol lap at his brain. They did not quite manage to tilt his stomach, and while Ron was aware enough of his half-hard cock to wrap a sleepy hand around it, it also felt somewhat far away and when the lapping tide rose to a tidal wave and rolled over him, drowning lust and consciousness on its way, he surrendered without a fight.

***

Morning dawned very grey, in keeping with the heavy dullness in Ron's brain when he cracked a sleepy eye open. He shifted, waiting for pain to explode in his forehead, but the hangover seemed to have passed him by with a fleeting kiss on the cheek. He felt a bit as if wrapped in cotton, but otherwise fine.

He stumbled out of bed with a huge yawn, and over to the sink where he waved his wand over the row of candles above the mirror, then threw a few handfuls of cold water onto his face. Drying off, he encountered a hint of stubble and his eyes travelled to the shell that held his new shaving kit. Why not? he told himself as it fell open noiselessly under his fingers.

Lifting out brush and knife, he ladled a bit of water into the shell casing before rooting through the pellets, sniffing several. Finally, he dropped in a light blue one with a faint smell of wintergreen. It hissed and frothed when it hit the water, then quickly smoothed out into a homogenous, pale-green lather.

The smell was nice, Ron decided when he dipped in the brush. If Hermione managed to come by today, they'd have extra fun snogging. He angled closer to the mirror and giggled at the feel of smooth lather spreading over his chin. Wet, the brush felt even sleeker than dry, and the contrast of green lather and red hair amused him. He vaguely recalled hearing from Dean Thomas that Muggle shaving cream only came in plain white. How boring.

As soon as he'd played with the brush enough to soak every stray bristle, his hand went to the leather sheath which held the shaving knife. He pulled it out, caressing the pearly handle and admiring the straight, glittering edge. There was a sort of decadent thrill in raising it to his skin, but he was grateful for the Anticut Charm after his first clumsy swipe.

Drawing back to find a better angle, Ron took in the room behind the mirror and encountered another pair of eyes. He jumped violently, glad once again that the razor blade was charmed.

The other eyes - sharp and grey - crinkled in amusement. Ron's cry of surprise died inside his throat. He'd have expected anyone - one of his brothers, Hermione, even Zach bloody Smith - to lean loose-limbed and bare-chested against his door.

But not Sirius Black. Not wearing Muggle jeans and boots and nothing else apart from a 'shag me'-grin that Ron would not - under any circumstances! - ever refer to by that name. No, he shouldn't have snogged Smith - perhaps it was catching?

With an indecent roll of his shoulder blade Sirius moved away from the door and sauntered up. Ron, swallowing another croak and pushing down his irrational libido, stood up very straight. The knife slipped from his hand, and Sirius caught it off his fingertips and flipped it over.

"Sirius!" Ron gasped, not at all aware of tight brown nipples, skin touched by summer and still too-visible ribs. Something was niggling at the back of his brain that made the presence of Sirius Black in his bedroom even more improbable than the already obvious, but the thought fled like a litter of mice under Crookshanks's paws when Sirius put a finger under his chin.

"Want help?"

"Um-" Ron gulped. "Uh, no, thanks - I'm fine."

"But it's a lot easier if someone wields the knife for you," Sirius said, lightly tilting Ron's chin to the side and putting the flat side of the blade to one of the wonky lines Ron had scraped clean. The mere touch of the metal seemed to curl right down into Ron's cock. He was embarrassingly aware that he'd woken up with morning wood, pleasantly achy but not bad enough to attend to it directly. Not until now.

He nudged a bit closer to the sink, trying to hide his groin. It would have worked, if he'd still been eleven and runty. Instead, Sirius's mouth curved up as if he'd gone and used Legilimency on Ron's over-heating brain.

"All right?" he asked, sliding the knife in an effortless arc down the curve of Ron's chin. Green lather spiralled away in artful ripples and splashed into the water where it spread in whitening swirls. Ron nodded, his mouth very dry.

Sirius put his free arm around Ron's waist and pulled him closer against his body, leaning them both forward to have a better look in the mirror. Ron let himself slump a little, enjoying the hard angles and hot skin against his back. Bloody hell, he really shouldn't have snogged Smith!

Sirius's cheek felt extremely intimate next to his as he peered over Ron's shoulder, and the light scrape of the blade over his skin echoed in Ron's prick every time. The knife slid over the nervous skin above Ron's upper lip, a mere ghost of a brush interspersed by dips into the water bowl. After a masterful twist over the dimple in Ron's chin, Sirius chuckled and pressed his cheek against Ron's freshly-shaved one.

"How about dispelling that Anticut Charm?" he whispered.

"Guh-" Ron moaned, because his heart had suddenly jumped into his throat while his blood rushed south.

"It'll be so much more interesting that way, don't you think?" Sirius added slyly.

The dryness in Ron's mouth intensified, as if he'd sucked on the Egyptian desert.

"Finite," he rasped and put his fingers on the hilt of the shaving knife in Sirius's hand. He felt a subtle shift of the blade on his neck, gaining an additional edge.

"Isn't that better?" Sirius tugged Ron's head lightly back against his chest and attacked the remaining side of Ron's face in careful swipes that somehow felt more... edgy despite being no less careful. There was practically no difference between the shaving blade with and without charm, and yet it sent an extra thrill crawling low in Ron's belly.

When the last speck of lather had vanished from Ron's cheek and dissolved into the water with a skilled twist of Sirius's wrist, Ron was almost disappointed. Sirius wiped the knife dry on a towel before laying it aside. He murmured a spell over the towel and brought it up, now hot and damp, to hug Ron's mouth and nose. The heat left Ron's skin tingling and he sighed blissfully.

Smirking, Sirius drew it away and banished it to its hanger. Ron encountered the laughing grey eyes again in the remarkably quiet mirror and blushed. With a chuckle, Sirius leaned in to nose his cheek.

"Nice," he commented after a probing sniff, then traced Ron's freshly-shaven cheekbone with a finger. "Very nice indeed."

Ron's heart thumped when Sirius reached for the razor again and rested the flat of the silver blade against Ron's collarbone. It looked almost pretty against his freckled skin. He could feel it in his cock too, which was pressing wetly against the front of his pyjama pants.

"I have the impression you like this," Sirius observed.

Ron trembled against his chest, mouth still bone-dry. One slip, and Sirius could cut his defenceless throat. A part of him wondered what that would look like. A thought about polyjuiced Death Eaters flashed up in his mind for a second, but Professor McGonagall had replaced Headmaster Dumbledore's Fidelius Charm on Grimmauld Place with one of her own the previous summer, and they were again safe. Ron was safe, well, as safe as Sirius Black would allow him to be.

And Sirius Black, whatever devilry he was up to, wouldn't stick a knife in his throat. No, Sirius was playing a Black game of sorts, or - as Ron's cock crudely reminded him - perhaps a Ron game. He shifted a little to relieve the pressure. He did like this; there was no denying his erection.

The blade tilted just a little, until the tip grazed along Ron's skin, whispering over the pulse point at his throat until Ron felt his blood thunder. It came to rest at the outside of his left collarbone, and dug in ever so slightly. Ron's eyes met Sirius's in the mirror, dark and knowing and heating Ron's blood to near-painful intensity. He saw himself licking his lips, skin stained with a heated flush. He returned Sirius's stare with wide eyes, incapable of some coy gesture of assent.

His Adam's apple jumped as he swallowed, and then the knife tip dug deeper and Ron felt the delicious prick from the tiny wound right down to his toes and everywhere in between. Mesmerised, he watched the tip of the blade twist a little, then retreat, and the perfect dark drop of blood taking its space, fattening into a plump tear, and then spilling down his neck.

Ron sighed, savouring the burn. Sirius chuckled at him, winding knifeless fingers through Ron's hair and petting it for a moment as if to praise him for his courage. Then he tugged Ron's head back and leaned in to lick off the bloody drop in one broad, wet swipe of his tongue before latching on to the little cut, worrying it with tongue and lips until Ron groaned and pumped up his hips, his swollen prick desperate for some of the same attention.

The hot puff of Sirius's laugh reverberated along Ron's throat as the man let go of his hair and swatted his hip.

"Not yet, Ron!"

Flushing half excited, half ashamed at the 'but soon' this entailed, Ron forced himself to still his hips, hoping his frantic cock would not drill right through his worn old pyjama bottoms. It already seemed insistent to soak them through, he realised with an embarrassed glance down.

The glint of the knife returning to his throat drew his attention like magic. It lay so naturally in Sirius's strong hand, like an extension of his will, and Ron felt its bite like nails when Sirius slid it into his flesh once more, right between collarbone and throat. Fat drops of blood bloomed around the tip, the sting no less delicious than the first, and for a moment the two lurid marks next to each other looked like a vampire bite. And when Sirius leaned in, black hair obscuring Ron's shoulder and biting at Ron's skin before suckling on the cut and draining away the bloody drops and then some, Ron was reminded of Dean's remarks that Muggles found vampires a turn-on. He'd thought that the height of silliness even though all the girls had been agog over Slughorn's friend Sanguini from the Slug Club party.

But now that it was Sirius sucking blood off his neck, it was the most cock-teasing thing Ron hand ever experienced. And some weird part of his mind found the image of vampire Sirius rather appropriate.

The shaving knife danced again, leaving a long, lighter scratch right below Ron's throat. An even row of bloody drops welled up, standing out in sharp contrast against Ron's skin - scarlet dots bright enough to shine without spilling over.

"Mmh," Sirius approved and put a single, deep indention just below the red curve as if to leave his signature. Ron shuddered. The cuts weren't painful even though they burned, and every time the blade cut into his skin a hot surge of pleasure ran through him. His prick chafed even against the flimsy fabric of his pyjama bottoms. He badly wanted to take it in hand, even more wished for Sirius deft fingers to wander there, but didn't dare to move. Even his brain felt shivery when Sirius raised the knife and placed another cut on his right collarbone, then a second beside it to complete the symmetry before attacking both with his mouth until Ron squirmed with arousal and groaned under the insistent prodding of his own sliced skin.

When Sirius let off at last, and drew back with the satisfied smile of a big, sated cat, Ron bit his lip to stop himself from begging to be touched. Instead of reaching towards Ron's groin, however, Sirius took hold of the back of Ron's neck and forced him to get a good look at himself. The marks stood out along his throat like a bloody necklace.

"Beautiful," Sirius murmured, and when Ron squirmed, a humiliated "'m not!" rushing from his lips, Sirius tightened his hold for an instant, then let go. "You may not be pretty, Ron - but that doesn't keep you from being beautiful."

He reached for the knife again, but this time the dark intensity was gone from his face, replaced by a wry half-grin as he trailed the blunt end over Ron's nipples. They hardened, as if the tiny pores there were exhaling. It was amazing, perhaps like that Muggle eclecticity Dad was so fascinated by - sparks of bliss and fear zinging through your stomach until you were scared to breathe.

The thought of what Dad would say forced more heat into Ron's cheeks. If he could see him, hanging near-naked in the arms of a man twice his age who was supposed to be... Ron's heated brain pawed tiredly to catch the fleeting thought, but it was already gone.

Sirius traced the blade over his chest and stomach, so light-handed that it left pink lines without breaking skin, until Ron's body prickled all over and felt... swollen, over-ripe just like his cock. As if he'd burst if there was no relief. He whimpered in protest at the gentle torture, nipples itching with neglect, and finally twisted up his hip under the blade in despair until some relief spilled through his nerves along with sharp pain, and a curved red line manifested at the junction between hip and thigh.

"Greedy little thing." Sirius clucked his tongue in mock admonition, then carefully placed the knife on the rim of the sink. He crept around Ron's back, going down on one knee beside him and nudged Ron's thigh with his cheek. One arm wrapped possessively around Ron's waist, he put his lips to the cut and lapped at it gently.

Feeling Sirius's mouth at that tender spot, teasing the pain to the brink of ecstasy with his lips so close to Ron's straining prick, his hair brushing the desperate flesh, had Ron convulsing with a shout and spilling all over his stomach and the side of Sirius's face. The world spun into white for an instant, a pure, primal shiver of breath and blood and seed. After a seemingly endless moment, Ron became aware that Sirius Black was still kneeling before him. He was making soothing noises and looked certainly the worse for wear after Ron's sudden loss of control.

Flushing with shame, Ron cringed, but Sirius just grinned and rose to his feet, sticking a casual finger into his mouth and sucking off Ron's come in a gesture that made Ron wish he could come again. Pulling his wand from the back pocket of his jeans, Sirius cleaned them both until his hair returned from plastered mess to soft black. Then he cast a quick healing charm on the cut at Ron's hip which hadn't stopped bleeding even during his orgasm.

For a long moment, Ron leaned against Sirius's body, head lolling onto his shoulder. The cuts burned at his throat and chest, a series of languid, sharp stings soothed from pain to low-burning ache by Sirius's mouth. He could see the red marks in the mirror, a collar of dots and scrapes, like an elaborate necklace. It looked beautiful.

Then Sirius took his hands off him, leaving Ron to stand on his own, and reality reasserted itself.

"But... how about you?" Ron slurred in protest, grinding his arse back to emphasise the hardness hidden inside Sirius's jeans. A part of Ron wanted to trace the outline with rough fingers. Another part suggested more.

"A generous soul, aren't you, Ron?" Sirius whispered hotly against Ron's neck. He hooked a finger into the waistband of Ron's pyjama pants and pulled them down over his knees. He squeezed one of Ron's arse cheeks until Ron's exhausted prick twitched again.

"What do you want me to do, hm? Bend you in half and fuck you over your own sink? Is that what you want?"

"I don't know," Ron whispered as a fist closed around his throat.

"No - I'd not do that to Harry's best friend," Sirius assured and petted him gently.

Ron felt himself pushed against the sink, and only had time to wonder whether Sirius's words had been sarcasm. Then Sirius's mouth traced his shoulder blade even as he nudged his thighs apart, and Ron grabbed onto the sink with both hands when he heard the rasp of Sirius's zipper being pulled down. Cold sweat stood out on his forehead, and bit like acid into the cuts below his throat. And then Ron felt the head of Sirius's cock, spongy, hard and very warm. Sirius rubbed it up and down Ron's cleft, and Ron squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to reveal his fear in the mirror. And yet, Sirius's instinctive groan of delight made his heart pound. If it gave him pleasure...

One arm wrapped around Ron's middle, thoroughly unwilling to let him move away even an inch, Sirius used his other hand to slide his prick between Ron's arse cheeks, never pressing against his hole with force, only teasing until the hair stood up all over Ron's body. The rub of hot flesh chafed a little, even more so for Sirius's tender bits, Ron supposed. The drops of wetness that seeped from the head of Sirius's prick didn't help much.

Finally, Sirius chuckled and let go of Ron's waist long enough to swirl a finger through the bowl of green lather and come up with a dollop which he proceeded to slather over his prick. The next slide, topped with a teasing push against Ron's hole, came with a distinct whiff of wintergreen. Ron giggled against his will, then peered into the mirror to gauge Sirius's reaction. Sirius's wild grin caught his own in the glass. He pressed his lips to the side of Ron's face, playfully tugged his hair back again, and then slid his prick between Ron's spread legs until it nudged his balls from behind, playing with them until Ron felt himself harden again.

Then Sirius's face turned harsh and he grabbed Ron's hips without any consideration for bruises, working his prick between Ron's legs and against his cleft with increasing frenzy, slippery with lather and scraping the virgin flesh of Ron's arse. Ron flattened himself against the sink, then cried out when he felt Sirius's hand close around his own prick, still tender from orgasm and cleaning charm, but rising between the teasing fingers.

The grip turned brutal when Sirius stiffened against him and let out a plaintive whine as he flooded the cleft of Ron's arse with warm seed. Nails dug into Ron's thigh, a sharp, flaring pain where the healing charm had only just knitted his flesh. Ron bucked in sudden, delicious shock. The pain and the searing heat of Sirius's other nail teasing the head of his prick was all he was aware of before his cock gave a second, weak twitch and coated Sirius's insistent hand. Ron's leg muscles trembled as if they'd been transfigured into water. He sucked in a sobbing breath, heart hammering, and collapsed, utterly drained.

He hardly felt Sirius picking him up and carrying him the few steps towards the bed. Through drooping lids, Ron saw Sirius's dark head bend over him and felt Sirius's lips kiss the burning marks on his throat once more. He sighed blissfully and fell asleep.

***

A sharp knock on the door had Ron upright in the bed in no time. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden stab of light through the sloping attic window.

"Get up, you lazy sod!" Ginny's painfully cheerful voice greeted him through the door. "It's almost noon!"

Ron groaned something vaguely affirmative and waited for her footsteps to patter downstairs before swinging his legs out of bed. His pyjama bottoms were pulled up over one arse cheek only, and the stickiness at his groin and the smell of stale spunk were only too familiar.

Images rushed his brain and Ron shot to his feet and over to the mirror. The necklace of reddened cuts still circled his neck and chest like a set of inflamed love bites. His pale skin flushed under the tutting of the mirror. He hardly dared to look at the shaving set, still neatly wrapped up on the sink. His cheeks were smooth, though. He swallowed. Could he really have woken up in the middle of the night, shaved in the grip of an uncannily erotic dream - about his best friend's male godfather, who was three years dead, on top of everything - and then gone back to sleep again? Had he cut himself, and found it arousing enough to come all over his pants?

He must have been more fucking drunk than he'd thought, turned on by Smith, frustrated over Hermione's absence and more than a little obsessed with the bloody painting of young Sirius on the wall. A surreptitious glance up at it revealed a raised eyebrow above a very knowing smirk, and Ron looked away quickly. Even that made his groin tingle in retrospect.

Performing a rapid cleaning charm rather than the shower he craved but which Ginny might not stand for, he slid into his clothes. He turned his pyjama bottoms over in his hands, then stuffed them deep into his duffle bag - he'd never wear them again, that much was certain, but he also didn't want to part with them.

He fled the room, door banging shut behind him, unaware that on the wall over the empty bed, the portrait of Sirius Black convulsed with soundless laughter inside its gilded frame.

~ finis ~


End file.
